


Bullet Wounds

by ughdotcom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Trans Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29706714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ughdotcom/pseuds/ughdotcom
Summary: Sherlock gets shot. John is there to help.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Bullet Wounds

It was going to be a normal case, or that was what Sherlock had thought. A dull murder that Scotland Yard somehow couldn’t solve, and he would drag John along, solve it, and wish that John was as in love with him as he was in love with him.

Well, that was apparently very much not what it was, Sherlock thought, as he leaned against a brick alley wall, waiting for John to find him, clutching a bleeding and gaping wound in his side.

It hadn’t hit anything vital, as if that was only just a small mercy. It was still  _ there _ , a gash in his flesh from a bullet speeding by him. He hadn’t even caught the culprit, the man had run the minute the gun fired. Hadn’t even stayed to see if it had hit Sherlock. Amateur.

“Sherlock!” a panicked voice yelled. Close. If Sherlock could hear it, John could hear him.

“John.” he groaned, and the man came running to the alley. “I’m hurt.” he said, lifting his hand briefly to show John the wound visible in his side, blood dripping out of torn fabric. He winced, and clasped his hand back down on it.

“We’ve got to get you to a hospital.” John insisted, helping the taller man brace against his shoulder to help him to a cab. Sherlock shook his head.

“Home. Take me home.  _ Please _ .”

“Sherlock, you got shot.” John said, helping him into the back of the cab.

“That’s gonna cost extra, mate.” the taxi driver said, eyeing Sherlock’s bleeding wound.

“We’ll cover it.” John promised. “The closest hospital? Please?”

“No! 221b Baker Street. John. You’re a doctor.”

John looked down at Sherlock, eyelids fluttering, voice pained through the demanding tone.

“Baker Street is closer.” the cabbie said, and John made up his mind.

“Baker Street.” the driver nodded, and sped off as John stroked a hand through Sherlock’s curls.

“It hurts.” Sherlock grunted.

“We have pain medication at home.” John promised him. “Don’t worry. We’ll be there soon.”

The cabbie stopped at the flat, and John pressed all the cash in his wallet into his hand. “If that isn’t enough, as Mrs Hudson. Tell her I’m good to pay her back.” He took Sherlock in his arms, helping him up the stairs and into their sitting room, setting the man on the couch.

Carefully he started to pull Sherlock’s jacket off, and then unbuttoned his shirt. He was wearing some sort of tight cropped tank top underneath, but John didn’t bother with it, it wasn’t touching the room.

“Is the bullet still in there?” John asked, and Sherlock shook his head. “Hold it while I get my things.” he rushed into his room, pulling out his bag, running back to the living room. “I might have to stitch this.” he warned, and Sherlock winced. John handed him a few pills, and Sherlock took them gratefully.

John pulled out sterilizers and a needle and thread. “You might want to turn away.”

“I can handle this, John, I solve murders for-” Sherlock stopped talking as John inserted the first stitch, jumping at the pain. He looked away.

“Breathe, Sherlock.” John warned as he pulled the thread through Sherlock’s skin. “You don’t want to pass out.”

“Don’t I though?” Sherlock responded. John glanced up at his face, a grimace on his perfect mouth and his blue eyes glazed over with pain. He looked back down to his handiwork.

“This is going to leave a scar.” he said, tying it off and starting to wrap gauze and bandages around it.

“I don’t mind scars.” Sherlock said, resting his head back on the pillow. He didn’t. It wasn’t like John hadn’t noticed the small, very straight, scars littering Sherlock’s stomach and arms. “John, can I get up? I need to change.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” John said, but Sherlock was already up and heading to his room. When he was out of the room, John nonsensically wondered how much he would have to pay Mrs Hudson to clean the blood out of the sofa. It would probably cost less, at least mentally, to just buy a new one.

Sherlock returned in an oversized hoodie. “It hurts.” he complained, sitting down in his chair. John gave a forced laugh.

“It’s a bullet wound, Sherlock, they do that.”

“I guess you saw my binder then. And the scars” Sherlock said, and John realized that he had.

“Sorry.” he said, and Sherlock just scoffed.

“I make a habit out of not going to hospitals. At least I trust you.”

“Sherlock, I won’t tell anyone. I won’t even talk about it with you if you don’t want me to.” John wanted to ask, and he wanted to comfort, give assurances. But he knew that that wasn’t Sherlock’s style.

“Don’t  _ ask _ .” Sherlock implored. “Please.”

“I won’t.” John wanted to touch Sherlock, to rest his hand on his cheek or hold him, make foolish promises like a teenager. He wanted to confess to Sherlock. Sherlock wanted the same.

“Sit with me?” John asked, and Sherlock, taller and injured and already in his chair, got up, folding himself onto John’s lap, resting his head on his shoulder.

“I’m here for you, if you ever need it.” John promised. “Let me help when you need it.”

“I will.”

It wasn’t the words they actually wanted to say. It wasn’t even close. But it was enough, enough for that night as they dozed off in a position that was uncomfortable except for one factor:

They were both there together.


End file.
